SCP 231: Exhibit C: Journal of Dean Winchester
by Mangerang
Summary: AU SCP!verse: The following writings are excerpts from the journal of D-class personnel, Dean Winchester, recovered from his cell, in regard to his first full term assigned to SCP-231-7. His whereabouts are still unknown to date.


**Matsu's Notes: So the Mangerang account is supposed to contain all materials co-authored by pennames Zafona and Touta Matsuda. Zaf and I agreed that our SCP!verse will be posted on Mangerang as well. This one-shot is part of a larger series and features characters that will repeat in other stories, and it is written by only myself without the input of my lovely co-author Zafona.**

Exhibit C: Journal of D-09856

The following are journal entries of D-09856, Dean Winchester, recovered from his cell.

August 8

I guess this is good news. I just received my acceptance letter to the Foundation. I don't know anything about it really, just that it's going to get me out of this cell and doing something again. Winchester words of wisdom number one: Don't get tried as an adult if you can help it. Juvie would've been ten times better than this hell hole.

August 10

Damn to do these guys move quick. I thought it would be at least a week before they came to get me. When they say accepted they mean now. They moved me this morning –early, might I add, and they had me waiting in this clean room. They took all of my stuff, including my photos. They let me keep my journal, but I swear to God if I don't get those back someone's going to pay. They hosed me down again, and gave me these stupid scrubs. I went through some tests, a lot of psychological stuff that I don't really understand. It's all a load of crap if you ask me. They took some blood for who knows what, doesn't matter: I'm clean anyway.

I'm sitting in a holding cell, and I'm really getting tired of three grey walls and iron bars. I can hear other people shuffling around in the cells along the same wall as my cell. They told me not to talk to anyone, or I would be terminated from the project. They probably told these other guys the same thing. I've never been terribly good at keeping quiet, but if I'm ever going to see Sam again I'll need to make it through this.

August 11

They had D-class personnel orientation today. I swear this place can't be legal. They're so strict with everything. There was a class full of us, like one of those large lecture halls you see in universities. We were all dressed the same, in our unremarkable scrubs, and masks. They gave us all these hooded face masks, like black ops balaclavas or something. The face is blank and smooth, like one of those opera masks. We all looked the same, like an army of toy soldiers. When I chanced looking around at some of the others, I could tell that some of them were really nervous by their body language: twitching and fidgeting. I heard one of the guys up in the front get reprimanded for looking around and snapped my gaze back up at the empty projection before getting caught.

This orientation business is kinda freaky –I have no idea how they expect us to remember all of this, and it sounds like any mistake could cost us our lives. I had no idea that an organization like this even existed, and I'd never heard of SCP before today. To Secure, Contain, and Protect, that is the mission of the Foundation. This thing is huge, bigger than any government. They have the world's best scientists and who knows what else working on this. Aliens, monsters, freaks of nature, magic... that's what this is, they're using science to try and explain it, but that doesn't change anything.

Orientation's gonna take at least a week, maybe longer. We need to be taught containment procedures and practically a new language in technical jargon. We need to be trained, tested, and routinized. It's like a hardcore boot camp. But without the camaraderie, they're forcing artificial isolation. It's looking like they're trying to break us rather than train us.

August 14

I couldn't take the stupid silence anymore, it's like being completely alone in a crowded room. Luckily, they didn't catch us. Wow, how long has it been since I've been able to say that there's an 'us.' I passed a note to the guy sitting next to me, super discreet like. We're further to the back of the hall, and toward the middle of the row. The guards in the room are fewer day by day as all of us D-class fall into line. They're also not very attentive. My neighbour's name is Steve Rogers, and apparently he doesn't like the silence too much either. He's one heck of an artist, you should see the comic-esque picture he drew of our instructor. It took everything I had not to laugh out loud.

It sucks that I don't know what the guy looks like, or what he did. Everything we talked about was pretty surface, and his passing comment about the Foundation being a Nazi camp was of equivocal hilarity to his drawing. Even so, I could be talking to a child pornographer for all I know. He seems nice enough, but I suppose anyone would after a few days of being a mute.

August 19

I never noticed it before, but everyone has a number printed on the back of their scrubs. Maybe they weren't there before, and it was only on the new set they traded out for. Either way, I can identify my note buddy now: D-09857, which is kind of funny, because my number is 09856. I know we'll be separated after orientation is over, assigned to whatever scp they need us for, but for the time being it's nice to have some semblance of a friend.

Steve and I exchange notes during class on a regular basis, but when we have drills and physical training exercises we don't get to talk much. I found out that he's from Brooklyn, and it made me wonder about where some of the other guys are from. We wear masks and gloves, and I don't even know what skin color these guys are. I mean, it's not like that matters or anything. They must all be from America, or Common Wealth countries because all of the instructions have been in English and everyone seems to understand it.

I'm working on my mask back in my cell. I saw what Steve did to his, or is starting to. I don't think he's done yet, but it looks really cool. He's making a face, like a new identity or something. It's creepy as hell. I'm trying to go for a wolf, something fierce with sharp eyes and sharper teeth. I kind of feel like a lone wolf right about now. I imagine the loners don't choose to be that way –they messed up, challenged the alpha or something. They probably miss their pack.

August 20

This was day nine of orientation, and goddamn it would I like a freaking day off already; so much for conventional labour laws. Tomorrow's our final assessment for physical capabilities and then we'll be scheduled for our final psych assessment. We were run through a practice physical today – Steve and I finished miles ahead of the rest of the trainees. I was proud at the time, but now I'm not so sure that was the best option. I mean, what if they send us to the hardest sites and we die within a week?

First, I can't think like that, I've got to think positive. Second, there is no 'we.' I like Steve, he's a great guy, but I'm technically not supposed to know him, and tomorrow will be the last day I see him. We won't even talk. Maybe I'll say good bye, whisper it to him or something. I don't even know what the guy sounds like, or even looks like.

August 21

Nothing like a little friendly competition. Steve and I pushed each other so damn hard I thought I'd collapse before I reached the finish line. He broke the record for the obstacle course, and I broke the record for fastest sprint. Damn were we breathing heavy. I think we impressed the director, but I can't be sure. The guy's face is made of stone or something.

While they were doing the individual jumps and rope climbs, the rest of us D-class were left to mill about in silence. I took my chance, and brushed shoulders with Steve as I walked by him. "Good luck, friend." I had to keep it short, and I knew he wouldn't be able to reply but it didn't matter. He got the message, and we've both known that we weren't alone in all of this. The guards didn't notice, but Steve and I kept our distance from each other just to be safe.

August 25

Finally had my full psych assessment. These guys must spend a small fortune on shrinks. The entire test took about seven hours, it's no wonder it took them almost a week to get to me. I've been moved from training camp to containment sector Echo. Now that I'm fully trained I have a 400 square foot apartment, sort of. It's command secured from the outside, but it has a small kitchenette, a bedroom, and a living space. It's pretty nice, and a whole lot better than a prison cell. The worst thing is the isolation. D-class personnel are not allowed to interact with any D-class assigned to a different SCP. Our involvement with regular personnel is to be kept at a minimum too. I can't wait for my first assignment if for no other reason than to see another human being.

September 8

Two weeks and nothing yet. I wonder if they're doing this on purpose, because they knew that Steve and I were 'talking.' I'm passing the time by working out –push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups... a lot of ups. I finished my wolf mask too. And it looks really awesome if I do say so myself. The teeth are bared, lips pulled back in a snarl and everything. And the eyes are green, like mine. I want people to see something in me other than a shallow mask. Whatever the case, this is worth it just to know that Sammy's safe out there. Yeah, he may be without his big brother, but I knew the risks when I did it.

September 25

I was back in for psychological testing. God damn it, do they like their tests. I guess it makes them feel like they understand us better, maybe it gives them a sense of control. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't signed up for it. Until they interpret the results they aren't going to tell me squat, or at least that's what the shrink told me. I can only guess that they're looking to assign me to something.

September 27

I swear if I didn't count the days myself I'd have no idea how long I've been in here for. They came to get me today, said my psych screening came back good. I've heard that sometimes people are looking for psychological deviants in these sorts of tests on purpose, so just because the test came back good doesn't mean that I'm sane. Not that I particularly care about my test results.

They said I'd be relocated sometime this evening to work on a Keter class SCP containment. Just my luck, to get a Keter straight off. These things are bad news. From what they told me in orientation, they have three classifications: Safe, Euclid, and Keter. Keter's are capable of massive destruction and have highly unstable containment statuses. D-class assigned to these mothers usually die. I wonder if they'd get a message out to Sammy if I wrote one. Probably not.

September 28

First day "on the job" and I want to shoot myself. They explained to me my role here, and as a D-class personnel it is my responsibility to perform Procedure 110-Montauk on SCP-231. God, how can they expect people to... to... _Fuck_. My hands are shaking while writing, I'm just so pissed off. I haven't seen SCP-231-7 yet, but there's no way she deserves this. They explained why it's necessary, and if there's any good reason to do this, it's to save the planet from an apocalypse. I mean hell, Sam's still living on this planet and if I have a chance to stop it from going up in smoke, they I'd better damn well take it.

I have to say though; I had no idea what I was signing up for when I was offered this position with the Foundation. On the bright side, I'm going to be living in a shared space with other D-classes. Since we're assigned to the same SCP, we're permitted to remove our masks, but not required. When in contact with regular site personnel, we are required to wear them, and for this particular SCP, the site personnel are also required to wear helmets to conceal their identity. I don't blame them, who would want to be known to have worked on anything like this.

September 29

Met SCP-231-7 today, or at least I saw her. No one gives me a straight answer as to what the deal is with her though. She looks normal to me, just a girl, thirteen –fifteen at most. I- I think she's pregnant. The overseer said not to mind that, that it's the scp's way of eliciting pity. They were pretty strict about individuals assisting in escape attempts, and I think that may have been what happened to one of the previous six SCP-231s. She just looked scared and distressed, and they had her strapped down to a hospital bed. This isn't right.

September 30

[Illegible scrawls]]

I think I'm going to be sick, I'll write it tomorrow. God have mercy.

October 1

Yesterday was my first day performing Procedure 110-Montauk. It's done once every 24 hours, at a minimum, by 6 D-class personnel. In the past they've had problems with lasting efficacy, so they use Class A amnesiac on her so she doesn't become jaded or tolerant of the treatment. I'm not sure how much of this I'm even allowed to write about. Heck, I'm surprised that they even let me keep my journal at all.

On the bright side, I met up with Steve Rogers again, D-09857. His mask is just the creepiest thing. It's minimalist in its design, but I swear he's added to it. It looks so real, like a human face, but not at all. It's hard to describe, but I doubt I'll forget it. I can't believe they assigned him to this thing too, we must be meant to know each other or something, because this is just too much of a coincidence.

In the common area we're allowed to take off our masks, like I'd mentioned earlier. As soon as we were returned from the procedure today I took mine off for him, and he took off his. We're both a little pale, and whether that's from all of our time away from direct sunlight or just due to illness I'm not sure –probably both. He's bigger than I remember, not taller but... bigger. He has vibrant blue eyes, strong and appraising. His hair is blonde and well kept. I'd always imagined that he was smiling, but his face looked grim, like he was haunted by something. I guess that's fair though, stuck with 110-Montauk and all. We were finally able to talk for the first time. It's good to hear his voice and to have a normal conversation with someone. We talked about everything we'd written about before, from sports to music and so on. It was a good time, and we were directed to bed at curfew by an irate 4/231 guard.

October 5

They must have used the amnesiac on her today. I've never seen a woman so terrified in her life. She was just screaming and begging, pleading with everything that she had they we stop. She said she'd give us anything, do anything, just make it stop. She doesn't know why she's here or who's doing this to her. It's just so disgusting, and I'm going to hell for this. I've determined that SCP-231-7 is definitely pregnant –that baby bump is no illusion. How in the world can the government authorize six convicted criminals to rape a pregnant 15-year old? They tell us she's not human, that's she's much older than she looks. They say that she's dangerous, and if this very necessary procedure were to fail or not be performed the lack of stress hormones would trigger some kind of event, cataclysmic. This is necessary. I just... I don't know if I can do this.

October 12

I've been writing this journal to keep myself busy and to kind of put my thoughts on paper. I don't think I'll ever go back and actually read this stuff. But on the off chance that I do, or someone else does, I think I'll write a bit of back story: My little brother's name is Samuel Winchester and I'm here for him. We lived in a little place in Lawrence, Kansas, him, me, my mom and my dad. Our mom died when I was very little, and since then it had always been just the three of us. My dad was an abusive drunkard, and I could always clean myself up well enough with cuts and bruises, but I still didn't like the situation. One day when Sammy was a bit older my dad started eying him funny, with one of those drunk-lust looks. I lost it when I saw the first mark on my brother. In short, the old man is dead and my little brother is safe.

I wanted to get that out so I can stop thinking about it. These nightmares are driving me crazy, and I wish to God and whoever else that SCP-231-7's eyes didn't look just like Sammy's. I'm not as bad as my dad, I'd never do that to a thirteen year old. It's no wonder they replace D-class after one month on this assignment. I'm pretty much half way done, and then I'm out of here. Rogers too.

That guy's holding up about as well as I am, I swear he's just barely there these days. He's not cut out for this, hurting people. Hurting _children_. I'm not either. We sit together, not talking much, just a kind of quiet camaraderie. It's that companionable silence of two people enduring the same hell together, day in and day out. I want to ask him if he's going to request the Class A amnesiac on his way out. We're allowed to, I just don't know if I want to. Who knows how much of my memory it will erase? The Overseer said it should only wipe the past month with the correct dosage, but I don't trust these eggheads and their shrinks.

October 31

Today was our last day on the SCP-231-7 assignment, and I will never forget that poor girl. All the higher ups on this project act like this past has been nothing short of routine, only knowing in the periphery of their minds the torments that they put this girl through. I'll never know who she really is or who she used to be. I'll never know if they were telling the truth when they said that she wasn't human, or if it was just the thing inside her that wasn't human. I honestly don't want to know.

I'm the only D-class on this month who didn't accept the class A amnesiac. I just couldn't take it, the chance that I'd forget Sammy, or the cowardice of running and hiding. I know what I did, and if that makes it hard to face every day, then I deserve it. But I swear I'm going to find a way out of here. If I ever see Steve again, he won't remember me, and for him that's probably just as well. I'll miss him, but he's better off.


End file.
